


Sermon for One

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode: s02e18 17 People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-09
Updated: 2005-03-09
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Even the President gets stood up now and then - which may not be a bad thing.





	Sermon for One

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Sermon For One**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** Is it really theft if you borrow someone else's much-broadcast conception and then put it right back unharmed, even (hopefully) enhanced? If so, then I don't have a leg to stand on. Might as well admit it.  
**Summary:** Even the President gets stood up now and then - which may not be such a bad thing.   
**Spoiler:** Up to and including "17 People."  
**Author's Note:** This plot has no bearing on any previous fic of mine. Of course, if you want to read them anyway... 

Looks like the rain's finally letting up. The Jefferson Memorial is starting to reappear, taking form through the mists like the "Isis" at full sail. The Washington Monument still looks like it's been cleanly decapitated by a gigantic ax, though. What a miserable spring day - but then, compared to what New England can produce, this is hardly worth commenting on. Maybe if I relocated the whole West Wing staff to Concorde for the fall, all those complaints about DC weather would stop for awhile...

What a view, especially in full sunlight - or at night. There are times when I'm sure I'll never tire of it, and that I'll really miss it when I leave here. And if that's not enough to boost my spirits - or my ego - then all I have to do is turn around and survey my office. *The* Office. An office that the entire civilized world has heard about. After all the powerful men who have worked here, all the critical decisions made here, all the history fashioned here, I sometimes still have trouble convincing myself that it's *mine.* Talk about a power trip.

And then there are times... times when departure sounds like a wonderful idea. Always assuming I survive the White House that long, of course.

Today would be a fine example. It's Sunday, almost eleven AM, and I'm here at work. Even a President should have one day off each week, don't you think? Imagine all the things I could do with some genuine free time. Sleep in. Read a novel rather than a report. Tie up the phone for a few hours with old friends and relatives, about anything except business. Fiddle with the budget because I want to, not because I have to.

Go to mass. Now that would be my first choice today.

But nope - duty calls, as it so often does with us world leaders.

"Us world leaders." Boy, does that have a conceited ring to it. Here I stand, proclaimed as the full equal to queens and popes - even, according to some, outranking them. Me, the chubby kid from Manchester who never could ride a bike properly (although I bet I can still swing a mean bat). Sometimes I have to fight off what feels disturbingly like terror. This is the world theater, and I'm standing center stage. Alone.

I know a lot of boys dream about growing up to be President, but not me. My plan was the priesthood... and I didn't have the Vatican as my ultimate goal, either. Plan B, after my lovable wife sank Plan A, was a simple economics professor. Not the Chair of the Federal Reserve, and certainly not a Nobel Prize. Then, quite by accident, I developed a taste for politics. I guess I can blame one or two of my ancestors there. Even then, as the elections began to pile up behind me, I wasn't eyeing the White House. I still don't exactly know how Leo talked me into *that* one.

Yeah, any American kid can hold this office, and lots of them think it'd be just great: to be powerful and famous and (they believe) rich as well. If only they knew. I wouldn't want to shatter their starry-eyed dreams, but the wealth is nonexistent, the fame gets old fast, and the power is so curtailed that I spend a lot of my time spinning my wheels in frustration.

On those occasions when I can seriously let that power loose, it's only after I've debated the issue for ages, after I've rattled both my brain and my nerves, and after I've resigned myself to the possible nation-shaking consequences. No decision I make here is frivolous.

The worst about this particular Sunday morning is, even though I'm at the office, I'm not working. I'm *waiting.* Norm Chandler convinced me that he simply had no other time to spare for our one-on-one about national education. So, like I have countless times before, I reminded myself that I can always go to mass next week, while this has to be addressed now.

Actually, I'm looking forward to our discussion. It may not be a rousing discourse on economics, but I've done that often enough myself. I used to *teach* it. That might be why I have a special interest in the educational system.

And what do you know - he's late. "Unavoidably detained." I like to think that few people would voluntarily keep the President of the United States waiting for over two hours; I like to think that most people would choose not to keep *anyone* waiting. Common courtesy. Yet here we are: he's stranded seventy-odd miles away, and I'm cooling my heels in this ultra-impressive oval chamber when it turns out I would've had time to attend my service after all. Ironic.

No point in going back upstairs, or starting anything else. I know that the moment I so much as sit down, Chandler will arrive. So I stand here, watch the rain, and try not to feel too bitter.

I really hate missing mass. It happens so often nowadays, too. Demands of the job. I almost never had this problem with the governorship. Naturally, anyone could point out the differences between leading one of the smallest states in the Union and leading that Union itself... but the more I'm deprived of it, the more I cherish the simple right and freedom to worship.

This goes far beyond the rituals and habits I grew up with, or even my aborted plans for ordination. There is an utterly unique sense of quiet, of peace, of refueling, that I can't find anywhere else - and ever since I landed here I've checked out a lot of places. Church is a guaranteed time for communing with myself, uninterrupted, a priceless opportunity in a life where the whole world seems to be constantly shouting for my attention. Also, it's a rare moment to do something personal with my family outside of our homes, something this particular job makes almost impossible.

One thing that the White House does not have is a chapel. The upper balconies offer fair privacy, but the weather can have a thing or two to say about that. Besides, while I may enjoy a wide-open view of the city, the city also has a wide-open view of *me.* And *this* room is the ultimate seat of secular power; not the most conducive atmosphere to spiritual reflection.

People have argued long and loud over whether or not someone can observe any kind of religion without attending structured services and observing dogmatic regulations. For my money, the human race is too gregarious to function as individual units. No matter what you believe, you need other minds to share your belief with, and to find support and guidance when that belief inevitably gets confusing. Community is essential to growth - indeed, to survival. Come to think of it, this applies to nations as well.

There are *colossal* problems when a President attends any public function: the security issues for starters, plus the exhaustive planning of every last detail, and then just the simple fact that hordes of people descend upon the place and spend their whole time staring at me. It's not so bad when the event is official, and I have a definite requirement to be seen - although the knowledge that I'll never be able to go anywhere again without being recognized does get depressing at times. But at a church service? It's so... personal. I really don't want to share it with the world, like I have to share the rest of my life. I want this one thing to myself, where I don't have to *be* the President for a couple of hours. Besides, you wouldn't believe how hard it is to pray when you know everyone's watching every move you make.

I'll tell you how far this goes: the *priests* are deferential. I *hate* that! We'll all equals in the sight of God. I get more than enough reverence every other day of the week; the Church is one place where you'd think I could be free of it. I'm not so different from everyone else, really! I've just about got Monsignor Kirby broken in on how to get past this Chief Executive nonsense, but it took ages. At least Father Cavanagh back home is less easily intimidated - he knew me long before my political stardom, and can still see the man behind the title.

Here's another example: when my term began and I started looking for a convenient local church, the whole DC Catholic Diocese almost came to blows over which one should have the distinction of hosting the President. I wonder if Carter went through something similar with the Baptist community. We finally settled on St. Martin's, since it's not very far from the White House, and it's not that big. I prefer small, intimate parishes anyway, rather than the huge, ornate, intimidating basilicas. The Secret Service like them - too, though for different reasons. Oh, sure, they still install their metal detectors, and they still insist on bringing weapons into the House of the Lord... but I drew the line at screening the clergy and running tests on the Host. If I'm not safe there, I might as well give up.

There are other advantages to a smaller church building. While I dislike the idea of turning people away from holy ground, the Service don't hesitate to use the excuse of limited capacity to keep everyone and his dog from cramming in as well just to gawk. For safety's sake - even at worship - the President must not be crowded. I know that sounds superficial and vain, but I just have to live with the unvarnished reality.

However, one huge compensation is the almost casual attitude of the regular congregates whenever I do manage to make it in. Not that they'd all just shrugged off the whole presidential thing by my second visit... but I find it astonishingly easy to mingle with them. Part of it, I'm convinced, is almost proprietary: "We're so glad you chose *our* Church!" Besides, they're naturally delighted to have a Christian leader in the first place. What blows me away each time, though, is how they and I have gradually developed a unique bond, a different kind of relationship than I have with any of my other friends or staff. A relationship that has nothing whatsoever to do with politics. A bond based solely upon our mutual commitment to our faith. This is what a world leader finds so elusive.

We never announce my visits in advance, simply because there's a guaranteed spectator bloom when I'm due to show up *anywhere.* For the vast majority, their first indication is when my motorcade pulls up outside. Oh, sure, if the sitting President does choose to attend a church, as a rule he sticks to just that one, so it often becomes known as "the President's Church." Still, I kind of doubt that many non-members hang around St. Martin's every Sunday on the off chance that I'll be free to attend. I bet quite a few people would endure a religious service that means nothing to them, if it gave them a good opportunity to get closer to me than the usual rope line. You know, maybe we should leak the word after all. Maybe, if people came a few times - no matter what their motives - some of the Gospel message would sink in. Maybe...

These days, there's no such thing as spontaneous action anymore; every move I make has to be worked out well in advance. At least this gives me the chance to lobby for my private Sunday morning, although of course a national emergency would throw my plans out the window at the last minute. Barring that, at least the clergy know to expect me, so that whoever's scheduled to preach has time to prepare his sermon accordingly. Almost every priest in town is on a roster, which lets them take turns being the guest speaker when I'm there. If I hang onto my office long enough, I might get to hear all of them at least once.

While we're on this topic, my travels create their own backwash. I love visiting different churches - and I don't mean just Catholic ones, either. But no matter where I go or how long I stay, my schedule fills up so fast and so tight that attending any service is well-nigh impossible. Which, again, has its positive and negative sides. The hosting community doesn't have to argue over what parish and what preacher, and consecrated buildings aren't invaded by a security lock-down. The people and the press would love to watch, but there are always lots of other events for both of them. The only real loser is myself.

Then there's the inevitable media controversy. Is my irregular attendance due to my workload, or is it a half-hearted effort to win the moralistic vote? Do I really believe what I claim to believe? Does religion make me weak as the single most powerful man on earth? (Damn, I can't stand that title.) How can you trust a political *and* military leader who trusts ultimately in a power beyond his own?

Well, I've got news for the world. I may work out of the Oval Office, but I'm still mortal and just as fallible as anyone else. I have my doubts, and my fears, and my very real need to remain part of the nation I'm supposed to lead -  
not *above* it. Actually, I like to think that my worship sends a vital message  
on its own: that the holder of this supreme office does not suddenly become  
immortal. The President is human - In fact he can be any human at all - and as a  
result he'll never quite measure up to divinity.

I am *so* glad that the Church and the State have been separated permanently.  
We've proven often enough in the past what happens when they aren't. If the  
structure of faith for the common citizen also commands temporal authority, then  
some people will infiltrate that structure solely to wield its authority. This  
also lets them dictate to the masses from an unimpeachable position. In so  
doing, they corrupt the Church beyond all recognition. We're still paying for  
that mistake even today. May none of my successors get such a bright idea...

Of course, the Church has its own form of discrimination, no matter how hard it  
tries to resist. I picked up on that during my brief tour of seminary. Looks  
like I owe Abbey another one. It's never bothered me to be around other  
denominations, other religions, agnostics or atheists... and a good thing,  
because I not only have to work with them, I now have to lead them. I've always  
felt that God is not that narrow-minded, so *I* sure shouldn't be. I honestly  
think this gives me a more objective viewpoint of those disputes that are  
founded on religion, but it also makes it harder for me to understand the forces  
driving people to kill in the name of their faith. Pros and cons to everything.

Sometimes I just ache to see the moral decay in the country, and the world. What  
can I do about it? It's my direct responsibility now - I have to be able to do  
*something!* Unfortunately, I can't use the tangible power of the White House to  
beat some sense into thick heads, no matter how much that thought appeals to me  
at times. But my role as a leader is political, ceremonial, martial *and* moral.  
Never doubt that.

And I refuse to compromise my beliefs because some fanatics take exception. I  
will *not* be blackmailed into becoming a mere figurehead, too fearful for my  
own well-being to risk making effective policy. I will not do that to this  
office, to the nation, or to its citizens. I'm going to be myself - *and* be the  
finest President I possibly can.

Frustration is really gnawing at me right now, especially since I so seldom have  
the time to go to mass anymore - and I could've gone today after all if I'd only  
known. Why didn't Norm schedule that car breakdown in advance, for pity's sake?  
I find myself pacing, fuming, wishing there were someone else here that I could  
vent at. But a presidential tantrum is still a tantrum, and not the best  
indication of maturity. I remember to circle the blue carpet rather than risk  
wearing a path across it. Every time I do this, and I do it a lot, I get the  
strange feeling that the eagle stitched into the carpet is following my every  
movement... either that, or else the one cast into the ceiling is constantly  
staring over my shoulder.

Interestingly, that bird predates the Constitution; in fact, I think people  
started using the eagle to symbolize both America and the Presidency before the  
Revolution itself was officially over. There's just no getting away from the  
history around here. Not that I want to, but it's sure pervasive at times. As  
though the White House is a living and breathing organism in its own right,  
holding you captive and pushing you onward at the same time.

Except for my footfalls, and my sighs, it's beautifully quiet. As a rule things  
have to get pretty loud in the hall to be heard in here, but you can always feel  
that buzz of activity just outside. Today the stillness is palpable - which is  
almost alien to this place, trust me. I don't think anyone from the  
administrative staff is around. In fact, I hope they aren't. They come in so  
often on Saturdays that I do my level best to grant them their Sabbath, even if  
I can't have it myself. Of course I live right on the premises, so it's a sight  
easier for me to wander in to the office than for them... and therefore a lot  
harder for me to get out of it. People who go home after work can't imagine the  
stress of living above the "shop." I never quite shake the feeling that I'm  
constantly on duty. But that's the price the President has to be prepared to  
pay.

Actually, my Residence is about a hundred yards to the east of here. I can't see  
that magnificent building from this angle, but you never forget that it's there.  
The symbol of America, right alongside Old Glory. They didn't add this Wing  
until 1902; the White House itself was built in 1792. Or, more accurately,  
that's when it was started. On October 13th, in fact: the three hundredth  
anniversary of Columbus' first full day in the New World. Nice touch. Took a  
full eight years to complete, as I recall. They say that half of the workers  
were foreign-born... like a true reflection of the diversity of American culture  
today. How apropos.

Right about now is where a lot of listeners would start rolling their eyes at  
me. Is it my fault that my brain just naturally retains all these intriguing  
little details? Information is power, and history is our foundation. As soon as  
I knew we'd won I immediately wanted to know more about our future home. There's  
only so much they can pound into you in elementary school. Consider it research  
into a new job - which is what any new employee should do.

Like the awesome moment when I first walked out onto the South Balcony, and  
touched the black marks on a couple of stones in the wall. Those are genuine  
smoke-stains from the British sacking in 1814. They were deliberately left  
unpainted, so that subsequent Presidents could stand there and feel the chills I  
felt then, and every time since.

For another point of interest, I've been told that the actual cornerstone can't  
be found. Kind of symbolic, in a way: this republic has undergone so many  
changes that our very origins are being more and more obscured. Then, too, a  
building without a cornerstone suggests a shaky foundation, or even a rudderless  
course. And people wonder why their President turns to the Church.

The White House proper is a four-star hotel and a national museum in one. Any  
millionaire today can build a bigger mansion, but they'll never capture the  
history or the sheer status. Like when Truman added his upper balcony to the  
South Portico: not only was there a national furor over changing a national  
image, but the Mint had to re-engrave the twenty-dollar bill as a result. Anyone  
care to top that? By the way, the Truman Balcony is on the second floor only,  
right outside the Residence. The one on the first floor, the one they used to  
cover with sectioned canopies, is simply the South Balcony, even though most  
people refer to it as Truman's anyway. I do try to be precise about the little  
things.

And speaking of money, no one has ever succeeded in figuring out exactly how  
much it costs to run this place. Between the cars and helicopters, the Navy  
running the mess and the National Park Service the eighteen acres of grounds,  
not to mention Secret Service protection... I gave up long ago trying to decide  
just who pays for what, never mind *what* they pay.

What a parade of extraordinary people have lived here. Washington himself was  
the only President who never got that chance. I love reminding my wife that the  
first First Lady of the White House was Abigail Adams. Wait, I seem to recall  
that there was another one - right, Abigail Fillmore. *My* Abbey's got a better  
history here than I do.

Leo and his "Big Block of Cheese" days! He never adds that Jackson also invited  
anyone and everyone to his first inaugural party. The mob got out of hand, and  
almost tore apart the entire first floor. Jackson had to literally run for  
cover. That was the second (and so far the last) time one of our Presidents has  
been driven from this House. I guess mentioning *that* detail would take some of  
the shine off of Leo's pep talks. Maybe that's the real reason why he never  
gives those talks in front of me; he knows I'll bring it up.

It really does feel strange to live in what must be *the* most watched domicile  
in the world. Not only that, it's a constant focus for public opinion, in good  
times and in bad. Whether they want to celebrate or protest, they gather  
outside. What is supposed to be our home is in fact open to the public  
year-round, and on most weekday mornings I know that crowds of tourists from all  
over the world are wandering about below our bedrooms. But then, the people of  
America pay for this House. They have the right to see it. As for our foreign  
visitors... well, I like to think that there's a good dash of envy.

The best tour of all, though, is when the outgoing First Lady escorts the  
incoming First Lady from end to end, including those famous rooms the public  
never sees. Abbey can be notoriously reserved on occasion, but not that time!  
Anyone who *can't* sing the praises of this place has a soul dead to romance.  
Among other things, she had no trouble convincing me to claim the traditional  
executive bedroom on the southwest corner. We overlook the entire South Lawn, we  
get almost no noise from Pennsylvania Avenue, and the first light of dawn  
doesn't hit us right in the face. (Not that either of us gets much chance to  
sleep in these days anyway.)

There are whole books of history contained inside these pillared walls. Theodore  
Roosevelt made the name "White House" official; he didn't think "Executive  
Mansion" was individual enough, since every state has one of those. Some people  
are convinced to this day that the Lincoln Bedroom is haunted by his ghost.  
Actually, Lincoln used that room for his office, not to sleep. I know those  
secret tunnels exist; Lyndon Johnson sneaked out of here all the time. So why  
can't I find them? They're more elusive than the ghost is.

The desk I'm standing behind was a gift from Queen Victoria to Rutherford B.  
Hayes in 1888. It's made with oak timbers from the "HMS Resolute," which was  
wrecked in the Arctic and salvaged by American whalers. Like most of the other  
furniture pieces in this office, it's beautiful and functional together. And if  
that dab of history isn't enough, when I sit behind it Washington looms on my  
left and Jackson on my right. Just a bit intimidating. I can never dodge the  
feeling that I've got some enormous shoes to fill.

There's that small white console under the desk's ledge, looking deceptively  
innocent. The presidential panic button, in case some emergency should crop up  
here in the Oval itself. Let me state for the record that if one actually did,  
the response would be *immediate.* I know, because I hit the panel with my knee  
once as I sat down. At first you'd think it's only a loud buzzer - but not five  
seconds later at least ten Secret Service agents smashed through the far door  
with guns drawn. Abbey and I were just about frightened to death. That was my  
first taste of having firearms aimed directly at me, and these guys are on *my*  
side! I've taken a lot more care sitting down ever since...

It's amazing how persistent a legend can be. Fact: the design of the Oval Office  
did *not* originate from someone's facetious suggestion that it accommodate  
Taft's rotund body shape. No, Washington started the idea of holding his  
meetings in a loose circle, so that no one would be at the "head" or the "foot."  
Greater equality all round. Nice try, but equality is usually the *last* thing  
someone expects when they walk in here now.

The Blue Room is also oval, and the elegant way Monroe decorated it never fails  
to impress people. Actually, hardly *anything* about this building fails to  
impress, in particular since the entire District of Columbia was built with that  
in mind. Late at night I love to wander alone through the halls, or as alone as  
I ever get these days, and soak up the quiet and the history together. The  
Library has a wonderfully-rich fragrance; somehow dust smells best when it  
settles on leather-bound books (especially books by American authors on American  
subjects). The China Room always glimmers, even in low lighting. Almost every  
First Lady chooses a new china design, but that doesn't mean we get rid of the  
old patterns. Thanks to France, there's a whole room devoted exclusively to  
Vermeil. As one might expect, the Map Room no longer has maps anywhere in it...  
but I can still feel a whisper of tension inside, as though the walls remember  
when they hosted years of strategy during World War II. Somehow these private  
moments have more impact on me than any of the glitzy events we host, where  
everyone's dressed to the nines and the Marine Band strikes up the moment I walk  
into a room.

That's another one of those fascinating snippets: it was Sarah Polk who first  
requisitioned "Hail to the Chief." Her husband was one of our shortest  
Presidents, and she wanted to make sure that whenever he arrived everyone knew  
it. If she'd guessed how this would plague the rest of us over the next century  
and a half, she might've thought twice.

I can't deny that the Presidency does come with more than its fair share of  
perks. Besides living in such historical grandeur, not many people in the world  
today are still waited on hand and foot without paying for that privilege  
through the nose. Thank God I was brought up more normally than this. The  
Bartlets are somewhat of a prestigious family back home - but not a particularly  
wealthy one. I get uncomfortable with such constant and instantaneous personal  
service. I hope none of my family ever gets to the point where we actually  
expect it. That doesn't seem to be the case yet, since we still like to do some  
things for ourselves. Spoiled First Kids are one of the eternal horror stories  
of this place, and I sure don't want Zoey falling into that category. So far, so  
good; she really does like dorm living. It's the closest thing to a normal  
existence for her as long as our official address is here.

The domestic staff is supposed to be invisible, but I make a point of noticing  
them and the contribution they make - even if I can't remember most of their  
names. Since we've never known anything like this degree of luxury before, we  
had to develop our own style of interaction that didn't come across as either  
too formal *or* too familiar. I know the nation expects its leader to be treated  
with white gloves. There's an international image to maintain, after all. Then  
too, some of these workers are a veritable fount of anecdotes about past  
administrations. What they have to tell would captivate readers far more than my  
simple life story. Really.

Whatever subservience the staggeringly-wealthy merit, it can't compare to how  
the staggeringly-powerful are treated. If I so much as mutter that I want  
something - a drink, a newspaper - someone fetches it instantly. No more  
slipping down to the kitchen for a snack at midnight, I tell you. I think some  
employees are rather jealous of their long-term roles and would be insulted if I  
denied them the opportunity to cater to my whims. They're quite proud of the  
fact that they haven't been stumped yet. According to the backstage whispers,  
it's been a standard for decades that the Democratic administrations have  
preferred Coca-Cola and the Republicans Pepsi, but we must stock every brand of  
alcohol and soft drink known to man. Except Fresca, I seem to have heard at one  
point. I ought to look into that. Mustn't spoil the record.

Let's be blunt: once a leader is handed the reins of an entire nation,  
especially a strong one, it's far too easy for the people to treat him like a  
monarch, complete with the divine right of kings. They need a father figure -  
one that's better than they themselves, of course. Where's the glory in being  
ruled by a man who's just as imperfect as you are? But then, how can you expect  
your leader to remain personable and at least somewhat humble when he's got  
control of the most powerful office in the land? I've had my share of  
embarrassing moments, and while I hardly enjoy them they do keep my feet on the  
ground.

Now there's another perfectly legitimate form of religion, and it permeates all  
of Washington, DC: the lust for power, for control. It's exactly like an  
addiction - once you have a taste, you want more. There's always something  
higher to shoot for... unless, of course, you happen to be standing where I am  
now. Millicent was right on the money when she said that for much of my life  
I've tended to dominate whatever room I'm in. The weird thing is, until she  
pointed it out I never fully realized that truth myself. This goes to show how  
subtly the influence can take hold.

The Oval Office can intimidate just about anyone. I've seen it happen time and  
again. Often even those who bill themselves as my strongest opponents are  
suddenly at a complete loss for words when they stand in this room and look  
their Chief Executive in the eye. There's something naturally awe-inspiring  
about the office, and hence the man who holds it. It's as if any opposition to  
the President is perceived as a direct attack on America itself. I can't define  
it any better just because I happen to be the man currently occupying this  
leather chair. But I really appreciate a person who has the nerve and the  
conviction to stand in front of my desk and give me the cold hard facts, whether  
I want to hear them or not. If I don't get the honest truth, if I'm told only  
what folks think I want to hear, then I can't do my job. Everyone needs people  
who give them a hard time on occasion and aren't afraid to tell them when  
they're wrong. That's particularly true for a leader. (Besides, I love a good  
argument. Especially if I win.)

I've got an incredible staff. They certainly respect me, and they may even like  
me, but they're too good at their own jobs not to challenge me on some damn fool  
idea when I don't have all the information. While they may not change my mind,  
they'll make sure I know why they think it's a bad route to take. At least then  
the mistakes are mine alone. That knowledge tends to cut down on the number of  
times I choose not to listen to them.

As if the awe isn't enough, a lot of people are seriously afraid of me. I'm  
talking *afraid.* Now I grant that, once in a while, I get a deadly satisfaction  
out of scaring some uncooperative politician into compliance. That is, on the  
rare occasions when Sam or Josh or even Toby can't pull it off. I am the  
ultimate intimidator, and proving it is the ultimate rush. But generally  
speaking, there's no pleasure in meeting people who are terrified to stand  
before me. Just the knowledge that I *can* frighten people is my strongest  
incentive not to do so. I want ordinary Americans to feel like they can talk to  
me without the Secret Service or the Army or Congress taking them apart,  
figuratively or literally. Still, there are benefits. In this vicious realm of  
mudslinging and backstabbing I'm a bit better protected than the average  
operative, so between patriotism and coercion I can sometimes convince them to  
help me rather than fight me.

Not all that far from this spot is the Cabinet Room, where the nation's great  
policies are decided. Or so it's hoped. Some days we make more progress than  
others... I still say they should provide less comfortable chairs, so that we'd  
feel less complacent. My chair has my name and my tenure on the back - and I get  
to take it with me when I leave office. Imagine sitting at home in the same  
chair that I used to practically rule this nation. I'm still divided on whether  
that's a grand gesture to former Presidents or just one more boost to an already  
dangerously inflated ego. I guess the historians will have to decide; I'm kind  
of biased.

The other critical chamber is the Situation Room. Now that's where the really  
serious choices have to be made. It's downstairs, it's sealed, and it's staffed  
round the clock. My heart drops every time I get one of those deceptive little  
notes or Leo comes over with a particularly grim look on his face, and my pulse  
speeds up the moment I walk inside. That room is the fulcrum of the military  
strength of the world's last and greatest superpower. And they all look to me.  
It could unsettle anyone.

I've always been fascinated by the Armed Forces, and yet apprehensive of them at  
the same time. My family has its own long history of service, starting with two  
great-great-great-uncles (or something like that) in the War of Independence. I  
remember reading that book of Washington's: he sounded so prissy you'd never  
think he could lead a newborn nation to freedom against an empire. I must've  
been feeling particularly self-satisfied that day, thinking I could take him on  
and win. But it'd hardly be fair to bring the Air Force into that equation, now,  
would it? No, if you leveled the playing field and gave me an army of the same  
era, I bet he'd whip my ass. The man was one hell of a strategist.

Quite a few of our past Presidents were soldiers. Me, if I had a choice I think  
I'd tend more towards being a pilot. Like Eisenhower. Well, it'll never happen  
now. Maybe my lack of military service makes me a bit less pugnacious. That's  
not a bad thing. The Cold War's over, anyway. Besides, with Leo's experience  
I've got the best advice around.

Being the nation's Commander-in-Chief has got to be the most intimidating aspect  
to this role I play. Not just about the authority behind that title, the sheer  
military strength at my fingertips. It's the responsibility of sending men into  
combat. It's the sorrow of having them die, because I said they should take that  
chance. It's the guilt of watching the caskets come home. It's the sick feeling  
that even what we call a victory doesn't seem to accomplish much these days,  
that in the end those boys' risks and suffering are worth next to nothing. God  
knows how I'd handle a real war. I hope I never have to find out. I've got more  
than enough battles to fight on the home front.

Actually, politicians in general, and presidents in particular, are warriors in  
their own right. They use words and votes for weapons - and very deadly weapons  
these can be. You need a battle, you need an enemy, you need secrecy, and you  
need a *plan.* The trick is to not see everyone is terms of *us* and *them,*  
such as thinking that those who worked with you in the campaign trenches are the  
only ones you can really trust. Now try to imagine how hard it is to find the  
bipartisan line. *Then* factor in the House versus the Senate. There's a  
constant fight against paranoia on all sides.

Inevitably, like everything else we do around here, we find new ways to take it  
to extremes. Washington is so insular that social contacts can mean more to some  
people than policy issues. I really loathe that petty tendency to trade favors  
for votes within the Party - and unfortunately, all too often I have to play by  
the same rules. So far we haven't yet figured out a more pragmatic system of  
responsible government.

A classic demonstration of this is whenever we hold a formal dinner. You  
wouldn't believe how valuable one of those things can be as political currency.  
If so-and-so isn't invited, it's not uncommon for them to threaten an abstention  
on a critical vote, or worse. It boils down to a blatant buying and selling of  
support - and a lot of these guys are supposed to be in my corner all along.  
Then again, so many people dream of being invited to a White House dinner. It's  
become one of the greatest status symbols in the country. Maybe so, but I'd  
enjoy them a lot more if I didn't have to spend most of my time hosting  
temperamental congressmen who insist on being pandered to. Conversely, I do get  
a charge out of the awestruck expression on common citizens, most of whom would  
never get in here without all this finagling and deal-brokering. If only I  
didn't have to put up with the rest of that crap first.

So, between attempting to make laws, keeping hostile nations at arm's length,  
putting on public appearances and holding the government together with  
handshakes and tradeoffs, my days get pretty full. No matter how I try to  
delegate, there's no end to the stuff that I have to deal with personally. For  
instance, the volume of public mail addressed to me is beyond belief. I do read  
a fair percentage of them personally - after they've been screened, of course.  
Don't even get me started on the Email boom! I'm still less computer-literate  
than I like to admit. But this is a crucial part of my job as leader of the  
people, just as the White House is the house of the people. It's also one part  
that I really enjoy. Especially the letters from kids; they're guaranteed to  
cheer me up on the worst day. Now and then I can actually help with a personal  
request... which I declare is the purest source of satisfaction.

If I signed by hand even a fraction of the documents that need my John Hancock,  
I'd have a permanent case of writer's cramp. (Why did they choose *him* as a  
synonym for a person's signature? *My* namesake signed the Declaration, too!)  
Every modern President has used and *needed* a mechanical signing machine to  
reel off facsimiles of his signature. I don't know how they did without in the  
old days - but back then the sheer workload was rather less. Still, this handy  
little invention is just so *impersonal.* I always have to be talked into using  
it at Christmas especially. How do so many people find their way onto our  
mailing list in the first place? I still get uneasy at the thought that  
something so distinctively mine can be mass-reproduced. If just one of those  
scribbles wound up on the wrong piece of paper...

Fortunately, or perhaps not, I have Margaret for a back-up. I caught her  
practicing once, and let me say that *I* couldn't have told the difference. If  
the possibilities weren't so serious - for her, for me, for the nation - I'd  
have been thoroughly tickled. I never would've believed someone's face could  
turn that red that fast. I think my relative good humor about the whole thing  
made her feel even worse. Probably just as well. I don't want her to start a new  
career in forgery; she'd be way too good at it.

A President's two most valuable commodities are his time and his words, and he  
needs help to manage both effectively. In general, my time is very well-managed  
for me; there's a small army of people who make the arrangements months in  
advance and come along wherever I go to keep me on schedule. As for the  
speeches... Toby and Sam are phenomenal. Not only with words, but with pacing.  
Sometimes a pause in the right place can be critical; it ensures the audience is  
listening and lends impact to key phrases. Between the two of them, they have an  
uncanny ability to put on paper what I know I want to say and how I'd be best to  
say it. I've never been good at writing my thoughts out. Now I admit that I like  
to improvise now and then; it's what I'm better at, and it's also a way of  
asserting in my own heart that these words are really mine, not someone else's  
creation. And I do like to get on Toby's nerves now and then, just for the fun  
of watching him resist the urge to tell me off. But never doubt for one minute  
that those two are anything less than geniuses at their craft. They make even  
the terror of the State of the Union bearable.

"The true measure of a man is how he treats the little people." Who said that? I  
forget. Well, it's fact. You have to show respect in order to command respect.  
That may seem obvious, but you'd be amazed how easily one can get drunk on White  
House prestige. From my position I can boss almost anyone and get away with it.  
Now I've never been a guy to flaunt whatever authority I may have. (Oops -  
*person.* Abbey's not the only one who'll take me to task for not using  
inclusive language.) But I can't deny that I've learned a lot about bullying in  
the last three years. I'd better watch it; I don't want to develop the habit.  
Given the choice, I'd rather be around ordinary folks than generals and  
diplomats. I often get more honest answers from the "little people," which means  
I don't *have* to act like a bully. Another factor is that I have to curb my  
natural inclination to micromanage, or else I'd never get *anything* done. My  
staff size in New Hampshire was a fraction of the thirteen hundred or so that  
work directly for me now. I can't just wander around and check in on how my  
troops are doing. I miss that personal touch, too.

There's almost nothing, literally, that I can do by myself anymore: not meals,  
not letters, not travel, and certainly not policy. I can't even pick up a phone  
without having at least one operator instantly on hand. The smallest details to  
my speeches and my movements have to be checked and re-checked, since a mistake  
or omission would be embarrassing - even nationally critical. Sometimes I think  
it's a wonder I can sleep at all.

The sheer number of my staff, and the space they need, has given birth to a  
unique style of hierarchy. There have been some real battles over proximity to  
the President, and I don't mean in the distant past alone. Most aides would  
rather have a broom closet here than a spacious office in the OEOB right next  
door. Even Ainsley Hayes didn't turn down a sub-basement hole in the wall. When  
you work at 1600 Pennsylvania, you're among the elite. Over the past two hundred  
years it's become a state of mind. Well, I can't say I enjoy being trapped in  
the eye of the hurricane, while people fight for the privilege to huddle around  
me.

It's true that most of the work laws passed by Congress don't apply to its own  
work environment - or to mine either. Honestly, this place can seem above the  
law all too literally and all too often. They've coined a special term for it:  
"White House-itis." It's like a unique brand of superiority and  
non-accountability, something I didn't encounter even in the House of Reps, and  
it can infect anyone who works here. The primary cause seems to be the level of  
sheer intimidation behind those simple words: "I work at the White House." That  
phrase can get you into a packed restaurant or out of a traffic ticket. Even  
though executive power is technically balanced by both Congress and the Supreme  
Court, there's a magic behind this address that still manages to outstrip  
congressmen and senators alike, no matter how low on our totem pole one might  
be. Constitution or not, when you're here you sometimes feel like you don't have  
to answer to *anyone.* I've heard my share of stories.

I remember sitting down with the senior staff fairly early in our term to  
discuss this. It has the potential to cripple everything we do. We still answer  
to the Legislature and to the people. This revered building does not give me or  
my employees free license to do whatever the hell we want for four years,  
thinking that no one will quite dare to call us on it. That would be an abuse of  
responsibility in the first order. The nation elected us so that we could use  
this political and social power for *their* benefit, not our own.

Another point to factor in is that each new administration has to build a  
working mechanism very quickly. It's hard to get the right people for the job so  
fast: people who are both skilled and selfless. Your electoral committee may  
have done wonders running a campaign, but might not be so good at running a  
country. The President is responsible for choosing his staff, so the final blame  
would be his. Fortunately, thanks to Leo, I've been blessed with some of the  
brightest and most dedicated talent to hit Washington in recent memory. Oh, our  
first year had its full share of shakedown trials and errors, but I don't need  
anyone else to tell me that these guys are simply terrific.

However, the dozen or so that I know best are rather seriously outnumbered. Most  
of the White House staff, both administrative and domestic, settled in long  
before I came and will stay long after I leave. They've developed their own  
routines, their own pecking orders, and they don't like to change. To them  
another First Family is almost a transient thing. Even a President doesn't often  
try to tamper with their established and stubborn backstage traditions. There's  
any number of little ways they could make my time here less pleasant if they  
really wanted to.

This can amount to a covert struggle for behind-the-scenes control of the White  
House itself if it gets out of hand, but I have one great ally: Mrs. Landingham.  
Don't be fooled by her unimpressive title of secretary; that woman is positively  
feared by just about everyone on the payroll. In fact, I'm not entirely exempt  
myself. Why she's been content to endure working for me these fifteen years and  
counting I'm not quite sure. Be that as it may, I'd wager that no one in history  
has slid into their job here more efficiently than she did, and a drill sergeant  
couldn't have had a better influence on our new home. I don't have time to  
settle every dispute over which clerk gets to deliver the First Lady's mail  
today and which chef gets to select the next menu. But my formidable mediator  
quietly made it clear that such pettiness would not be permitted to interfere  
with running the nation's premier residence at peak efficiency. None of us want  
my family's care, my staff's needs or the impressions of visiting dignitaries to  
suffer because "we've always done it this way" and somebody doesn't want to  
evolve. There have been tales of that happening to previous Presidents, too.

Charlie is also a major help. He moves among the different strata of employees  
more than almost anyone else. He's my barometer to mood swings throughout the  
House. I expect many workers are more than a little suspicious of him for that  
very reason; still, it's impossible for anyone not to like him. Plus, I'd swear  
he's almost psychic at times. He may not enjoy his unofficial title of executive  
baby-sitter, but he's gotten so good at it that I doubt I could do without him  
now.

And I am so lucky to have Leo. Bringing in old friends here is not always a good  
idea. Far too often in this town people prefer to use their shared history for  
favors rather than facts, and that can get very dangerous very fast. But Leo  
never hesitates to get in my face when I deserve it. He rules the White House  
more than I ever will. He focuses everything like a high-powered lens, he has  
tremendous political skill himself, and he's got a hard core of no-nonsense.  
That's the kind of guy a Chief of Staff has to be, or else I'd get totally  
bogged down in minor issues. It's a real feeling of security, to know that I  
have someone I truly trust guarding my flank.

People have said that I'm a very intelligent man. Come to think of it, I've said  
that myself. But when it comes to administration and political organizing, Leo  
is smarter than me by far, and there are times when Josh is smarter than Leo. So  
who do I think I'm kidding, anyway?

When I leave this office, the senior staffers, and their closest assistants,  
will pretty much have to leave as well. Which is a real shame. Not so much that  
they'll all have to find other work - with their talent that won't be hard, and  
if they want a reference with the Presidential Seal they have only to ask - but  
it'd be fantastic if they stayed on to advise the next guy who winds up here.  
That would go a long way towards continuity and progress in this government.  
When you've found your real niche, you shouldn't have to leave it just because  
your boss has to leave his.

One of the things that I treasure most here is the genuine fun that my closest  
people and I sometimes share. It's truly exhausting to have everyone defer to  
you every minute of the day. You're put on a pedestal and no one dares to let  
you come down. Even Leo has trouble letting go at times. Still, now and then we  
all manage to lighten up and play a bit, be it basketball, poker, chess... It  
means so much to me that my staff members are willing to relax around their  
chief now and then, that they feel comfortable sharing their dreams and  
confiding their problems. I enjoy getting to know them better, too, not just as  
names and job descriptions. When we understand each other's strengths and  
weaknesses, we can compensate. Also, if they feel that close to me after hours,  
then I know that I can rely on their candor when the hard decisions come up -  
decisions that we all face together.

Now if there's one organization whose candor I do *not* always welcome, it's the  
fourth estate. (Hm, I wonder what the first three are? I should find out. That  
would be another great conversation-starter.) Regrettably, in this age of the  
all-pervasive media, being perceived as a good President has more to do with  
character and showmanship than actual accomplishment, and there's no reason to  
believe that trend will ever change. The game rules in Washington are that you  
have to make friends who'll back you up, and you have to stay above suspicion.  
Otherwise, you'll be the target tomorrow. Of course, you can't please everyone,  
and five will get you ten that your enemies today will need your support  
tomorrow - or vice versa. But the very fact that anyone can become a target of  
public condemnation is how people in power can be held accountable for their  
actions. If I honestly thought that I could do anything and the people wouldn't  
mind, or wouldn't find out... but take my word for it: the impression that a  
building as heavily defended as the White House can prevent information from  
getting out is a total myth. I'd say that fact is the single greatest safeguard  
to making sure a democracy doesn't become a dictatorship.

The press do generally try to treat my office with the respect it deserves,  
while still keeping the nation informed on what their government is up to. It's  
only fair that folks complain when I do something stupid. Of course there's a  
consuming desire to know the elusive First Family better, so dirt has its own  
appeal. On the other hand, an antagonistic reporter risks having his or her  
paper's access to the White House revoked, and in the ultra-competitive field of  
political news that can be crippling. So they try to dance as close as possible  
without pissing me off. They know that *I* know that my image is most clearly  
defined by the media.

The public is just so fascinated with us that they want to know *everything.*  
Now and then Abbey will let slip a tantalizing factoid or two, like when she  
stated how she's proven that Ouija boards don't work. (Something about a  
high-school prediction that she'd marry a prince. Boy, did I ever save her from  
a life of misery.) She'll do this casually, almost merrily, as if it's a game to  
keep the people begging for more. In a way, I suppose it is - so long as we  
control it. The green beans were not planned. How *did* CJ find out about that  
one?

I do my best not to view the press as the enemy. It's never easy, though. Danny  
Concannon is a fine example of these mixed feelings. I like him personally, but  
his nose for news has stung us before. He doesn't do it to be mean; it's his job  
to find the story that we want to bury. He was right to protect his sources even  
from me, and I was wrong to try to charm information out of him. Say, I wonder  
if he ever realized that something in his obstinacy that day gave me the real  
clue as to whom he was defending all along.

No, I mustn't treat the media as either my personal public relations tool or the  
greatest threat to my success. I'm not about to schmooze reporters in order to  
purchase their good reviews; on the other hand, I can't risk alienating them  
either. Fact is, they're my primary source of truth out there. For all the  
honesty of my staff, they can be handed bad data like anyone else. The papers  
may be biased at times, but there's no point pretending that an elected  
representative is above their influence. I need them as much as they need me.

CJ's skill in this ever-so-delicate balancing act is absolutely priceless. She  
can put a positive spin on almost any disaster you'd care to name. Now every  
administration fouls up at some point, and when you do you're totally alone.  
Then there's the popular stereotype that politicians lie even when they don't  
have to. (I like to think that *is* a misconception...) I'm not immune to error  
\- in fact I sometimes wonder if I'm error-prone - and it's totally natural to  
want to smooth over or even hide those moments. You know, appear in your best  
light. It still amazes me how my Press Secretary can paint the gaffes so that,  
even though she doesn't deny they took place, somehow the reporters see only the  
positive side. Like I said, priceless. Still, we do try to learn from our  
mistakes. There's only so many times I can expect CJ to pull off a miracle. Just  
to underscore the stresses of her role, during Truman's term two Press  
Secretaries died on the job. I am *not* going to let that happen to mine.

Now I can just see this rubbing someone the wrong way, but if you don't believe  
me I'll prove it: almost anyone can be distracted from the issues by the promise  
of theater and entertainment. Sometimes a dash of show business can be a very  
effective smokescreen so that you don't get asked the hard questions. Of course  
it's downright dishonest. I try not to resort to such a cop-out if I possibly  
can. The voters deserve better. But it's far harder than it sounds. As every  
politician learns sooner or later, the gulf between promising to do something  
beneficial and then finding a way to actually make it happen can't always be  
bridged. That's an excellent source of self-castigation... and cynicism.

It really does get ridiculous in a certain light, as though no matter where I go  
there'll be people who won't believe me and people who'd like to smack me. As  
though I want to convince them of my sincerity but don't dare trust them myself.  
This kind of thing can make you feel like a pariah, carrying your own cloud with  
you. I'm referring especially to the cloud of security.

"Motorcade" is one of the more recent additions to Webster's; it took even  
longer to make it into the Oxford. In common usage only a Head of State measures  
up to the term. Mine is never less than fifteen vehicles, and it can often run  
to twice that. There are staff cars, security cars, press cars, police cycles,  
an ambulance, and at least two limos, just to confuse the issue for attackers  
and spectators alike. (You see limos all the time in the capital city - but none  
of *them* are virtual armored tanks. I love how the Secret Service refer to my  
rolling strong box as "Stagecoach.") The proposed route is swept and sealed off  
well in advance, complete with snipers on the rooftops. So no matter where I go  
it becomes a major production, and everyone else has no choice but to get out of  
my way. Truthfully, this is not a distinction that gives me any pleasure. I  
sometimes feel like *I'm* the threat.

In this era of rampant terrorism, it's hard to believe that no one thought to  
secure the White House itself until the Civil War. I think the total guard force  
back then numbered three dozen. Barely ten years before that, Franklin Pierce  
was finally assigned a full-time bodyguard. One man. Today there must be a  
hundred Secret Service agents on presidential detail alone! Add to that the  
defenses all around me at this very moment: the metal detectors and Geiger  
counters, the constant water and air tests, the reinforced fences that I'm told  
can withstand the impact of a two-ton truck... There's a small-scale hospital  
downstairs and an entire medical staff - including the trained medics who mingle  
with the Service wherever I go, there if we need them and all of us hoping we  
won't. There are surveillance cameras and trip-alarms everywhere. Practically  
every single item in the building, from paintings to flatware, has a serial  
number and a photo on file. At times I'm almost afraid to touch something, in  
case the Curator picks up my fingerprints or finds that the item has been moved  
marginally out of alignment. To sum it up, this famous address must be the  
world's most luxurious prison.

I really can't get too critical of the Secret Service. They have one of the most  
unenviable jobs, after all. In a touch of pure irony, it was on the very day  
Lincoln died that his Secretary of the Treasury first proposed the idea of a  
special service. Actually, their original purpose was to chase counterfeiters,  
not presidents. They didn't evolve into bodyguards until *after* the third  
executive assassination in thirty-six years - McKinley's - and since then  
they've had one more successful murder and at least eight attempts. Let's see: I  
used to be able to rhyme these off. Don't ask me why. Jackson, both Roosevelts,  
Truman (that was a really pitched gunfight, that one), Nixon, Ford - twice - and  
Reagan. Actually, FDR was only President-elect at the time. Historians wondered  
about Taylor for decades, but I hear that they've finally proven he died of  
natural causes, *not* poisoning, so he doesn't count. Hm, who am I forgetting?

Oh, right. Me.

I *did* forget. It's amazing how often I don't feel like I truly belong in the  
august company of those great men who've held this highest office.

So of course I can't go anywhere without thirty guys following me around, all  
armed to the teeth, backed up by state-of-the-art technology and taking no  
chances. These days, anyone who threatens *any* public official is automatically  
considered a potential threat to the President. After all, if argumentative  
types can't get satisfaction at lower levels, they'll look further up, so  
eventually they'll have to think of me. It's more than a bit terrifying to know  
that a sizable chunk of all the gun-sights in the country are at some point  
aimed at you.

Call it denial, call it recklessness, call it foolhardiness or whatever you  
like, but the bottom line is that I simply *can't* let that thought get to me. I  
know the danger's out there. I just block it out most of the time. I'd never be  
able to function otherwise; the entire government would grind to a halt if all  
of us backed down from possible risk. So I tell myself that I'm not going to  
even admit to the danger. It's almost like a form of self-hypnosis. In fact, I  
got so good at it that after Rosslyn I really wasn't in bad mental shape. Of  
course, the fact that I knew I wasn't in very bad *physical* shape either  
probably had some bearing on my recovery.

It's incredible the way your own mind can fool you. I never felt a thing. I  
can't tell people what it's like to be shot because I honestly don't know. I  
don't even remember any initial pain. I was far too busy worrying about everyone  
else, fighting what I thought was mere fatigue... and then I had the image of  
the President to maintain. Just the look of shock in the eyes of perfect  
strangers - followed by the horror of my friends and then my family - was all  
the incentive I needed to put on a bold face. After that I was so afraid for  
Josh that I hardly gave my own condition another thought. That guy must be made  
of whalebone, and am I grateful for it.

I might as well admit it: there was another reason why I shrugged off the whole  
Newseum aftermath fairly quickly. I read once that, after his own inauguration,  
Pope John Paul II was encouraged to wear a bulletproof vest when he went out in  
public. And he refused, saying that he could not serve the people if he walked  
among them in fear. Even after he himself was shot less than three years later,  
he still didn't change his mind. Our two situations are a lot alike; I figured I  
could do no less. That great man is an inspiration. Of course the Secret Service  
don't agree with me on this, I can tell you. But I won't do it. The American  
people elected me to lead them through thick and thin. How can I be a leader if  
I cower and hide from everything that threatens me? Presidents live - and die -  
for their country. End of discussion.

And there's a third factor. Any close brush with death tends to change one's  
perspective on life, and I expect that many people have been driven to religion  
after just such an experience. In my case, at least I didn't have to run far.  
Some brand it as escapism, but I couldn't get over how strong my beliefs made me  
feel. I didn't look forward to the pain of dying, and I hated to think of the  
chaos and grief I'd leave behind... and yet, there was no fear of death itself.  
How I wish I could really share that astounding experience with others. But  
somehow, the right words won't come.

Any virtue I got out of it, though, was counteracted by guilt over Josh's long  
road back. I blamed myself for not noticing his state of mind sooner. We all did  
\- we worried about him, we watched him, we worked with him, and we still managed  
to miss it. Sam and Donna were particularly cut up, but I know that Charlie felt  
even worse. Bad enough that he had to be the indirect cause of injury to his  
closest friend at work; suddenly he saw himself as a direct threat to me as  
well. I could see it in his eyes, and it just tore me up. No one should have to  
deal with racism in the first place, much less go through that personal  
purgatory. But he's made it okay, too... thanks in large part to Zoey. He's a  
great kid.

No. He's a man.

After all the panic, all the anger, all the healing, some good *did* come out of  
it. That archaic requirement for the President to sign off executive authority  
when he knows he's going to be incapacitated? It's ludicrous. As soon as I was  
back on my feet, I got together with Leo and a few others and started work on a  
new plan - a classified and a detailed one - that would immediately transfer  
power to the Vice President in the next instance of my sudden injury or  
illness... just in case. (We're just hoping there won't *be* a next instance,  
for *any* reason, for any*one.*) Maybe I owe those misguided gunmen a vote of  
thanks for digging up this flaw in our political system. The repercussions  
could've turned out far worse than they did. At least nothing happened that  
Hoynes, with Leo, couldn't handle.

All in all, John did great. It's hard for me to work with someone when I know  
he'd like nothing better in the world that to have my job, just as it must be  
hard for him to linger in my shadow. But that day he got a harsh taste of what  
the Presidency is like... and he handled it. Then too, he's been noticeably less  
antagonistic ever since. He'll make a good Chief Exec himself one day, if he can  
just choose a Chief of Staff that won't let it go to his head.

It's hard to believe almost a year has passed. Sometimes I wonder if that wasn't  
a previous lifetime; other days the memories feel less than a week old. We've  
all come a long way since, but there are still moments when I suddenly notice a  
cloud crossing someone's face... Hey - I totally forgot about Ron for a moment.  
Good thing he's left-handed. Now that guy defines duty. I owe him my life, make  
no mistake. I may object to the tight cordon he's always throwing around me  
whenever I step outside, but I sure don't want to give him a chance to save me  
again.

The White House is the most public of places; minuscule details about it are  
more often documented than forgotten, and neat little tidbits of information  
always crop up sooner or later. I like to think of coincidences as God's sense  
of humor. As it happens, Ron is not too distantly related to Alexander  
Butterfield, the fellow who revealed the existence of the Nixon tapes. Sometimes  
I like to remind Ron of that, the same way I like to remind him that his real  
name is Juan. Anything to try to get him to smile. He's often so morose and  
deadpan. I suppose with his job he has to be.

In the same way, I enjoy teasing Toby about a cousin of his own: Ronald Ziegler  
was Nixon's press secretary. It really is a small world at times, and I have no  
doubt there are lots more gems like this buried in our past.

I may get antsy over these exercises to ensure my safety, but I can't deny their  
importance. Certainly I'm grateful for the protection of my family; in a way  
they're more at risk than I am. *Their* safety is worth any price to me... and  
people know it. God forbid that anything should happen to my children, or Annie  
\- or *Abbey.* None of them enjoy this eternal vigilance, but at least they've  
resigned themselves to it, the same way I have. Definitely the lesser of two  
evils.

Oh, but Jonathan hasn't, and he's the only one *not* surrounded by bodyguards. I  
guess the Service figure that kidnappers figure that most Presidents wouldn't go  
to the same lengths to buy back a sibling. I'm not sure yet whether Jon feels  
slighted by his lower importance, or miffed that his kid brother doesn't want to  
take care of *him* for a change. Even after the steamer truck incident. I keep  
telling him that he should be grateful; many of us would almost kill for his  
degree of freedom.

I like the way the Service sometimes refer to me as "Liberty." Now if that isn't  
a contradiction in terms I don't know what is.

Any public figure just naturally feels cut off from the average citizen on the  
street. You can't go anyplace without being mobbed. My particular problem is  
that all of those citizens are also my constituents. They have the right to meet  
their elected representative; but security always throws up a solid wall between  
us. I'm so inaccessible that I must seem like an icon to them at times. What a  
scary thought. It's not only my responsibility to meet them, it's a delight -  
Rosslyn notwithstanding. They stand around for hours, hoping for one brief  
glimpse of me... damn it, they deserve so much more than that. I owe them my  
thanks at the very least. I will not deny them their flesh-and-blood leader.  
They need to know that I care about *them,* not just the power they've entrusted  
to me. It's worth the risk in my books. Surely there aren't *that* many people  
who'd rather see me dead.

With all the depressing statistics and despite the elaborate precautions, the  
risk is very real. About thirty percent, according to my figures. Most of my  
predecessors got through their whole terms without a hitch, but there's more  
riding on the executive office these days than ever before. It's unnerving when  
you grasp just how much depends on me: on my decisions, and on my well-being.  
Now if only nothing else happens to increase the odds even more...

There *is* one major upside to all this protection that I expect both my family  
and my staff will miss: the Secret Service are fantastic when it comes to travel  
arrangements. We have our own vehicles, our own private Customs officer, and  
there hasn't been an instance yet of lost or damaged luggage. Oh, and the planes  
wait for *us.* I gotta say, that part is great. It really drives home just how  
important and valued we are.

Of course, the predictable downside is an almost complete lack of privacy. My  
family and I are followed from room to room, even at home. Our every word is  
listened to, and far too often repeated. Every one of us, to some extent, has  
put our lives on hold, such as giving up personal travel, certain ambitions and  
even hobbies. Friends tend to become distanced. There are so many curtails to  
our mobility... and these handicaps are going to stick with us pretty much for  
the rest of our lives. Is it really too high a cost for this once-in-a-lifetime  
opportunity? Sometimes I'm sure, sometimes I'm not.

The First Family belongs to the people; we must set an example as the *perfect*  
family. This means that in effect we abdicated all claims to personal privacy  
the moment we entered the spotlight. We're famous, and we're apparently  
interesting, therefore we're news. Nothing to be done about it.

Man, for two bits right now I'd put the entire country on hold and play hooky  
this week.

There! I knew some fragment of economic trivia would eventually come to me!  
People *really* raise their eyebrows when I tell them that the origin of the US  
coinage system lies in the Spanish dollar. During the colonial period that was  
the predominant currency, and they based it on eight reals - the infamous  
"pieces of eight." One real was often referred to as "one bit," two reals were  
"two bits" or a quarter of the whole, and four reals were "four bits" or a  
half-dollar. Which means... I just valued my entire Presidency at twenty-five  
cents.

All joking aside, there are days when this place and this job get positively  
suffocating. I wish I could go home more often. Thank God New Hampshire isn't  
all that far away, considering. Now and then I'm hit with the biggest urge to  
get away from the office... out in the country... Don't I deserve the odd  
holiday like anyone else? Oh, sure, Camp David is closer still, and it's more  
private and more secure. Still, it's not *home.* It's a place for historical  
summits, not relaxing vacations. Eisenhower named the place after his grandson,  
but for some strange reason the Secret Service refer to it as "Cactus." I wonder  
if there's something around here I can christen in honor of Annie. Our little  
darling more than deserves it.

And then there's "Angel." Now that plane has got to be the supreme status symbol  
in the world. Franklin D. Roosevelt was the first of us to fly, and it's really  
taken off since. (All right, Jed, lay off the bad jokes.) I think Ike coined the  
term "Air Force One" as well - or was it Kennedy? No, Kennedy got the first jet.  
Right. Technology just keeps making them better. What a marvel of engineering,  
never mind the historical significance and the sheer military implications. I  
can travel better than first class anywhere in the world in almost no time, with  
a minimal amount of risk, and I can stay in constant touch with DC and bring all  
my work along so I don't miss a thing.

Wait a minute, there's something wrong with that equation...

I'm sure I'll never forget the first time I walked on board. I'd never even seen  
the plane up close before; not every congressman or governor receives an  
invitation to fly her. Suddenly there I was - on *my* plane. Oh, I tried to be  
nonchalant at first... you know, presidential. But I soon gave up; I simply had  
to acknowledge the moment. I *love* ordering her off: to feel the building  
thunder of those massive engines at my express command, and the exhilaration as  
she surges free from the confines of earth. No wonder past Presidents took her  
up as often as they could, and no wonder private citizens have done anything  
short of blackmail to accompany them. If ever you hear someone refer to  
"hitchhiking on an Angel," you'll know what they mean.

The human race must be unique for its love of souvenirs, if nothing else. All  
the ashtrays, all the plates and glasses, even the toilet paper is inscribed  
"Air Force One." It's a constant battle keeping things in stock. The suppliers  
used to provide special cigarette packages like that as well, which would always  
be the first things to disappear. Nowadays we threaten the passengers'  
waistlines rather than their lungs by giving away M&Ms instead. Now I'm all for  
catering to my sweet tooth, but there are still times when I get that nicotine  
craving... Well, I can always blame it on the stresses of my job. Nobody yet has  
called me on it. (And I *am* trying to cut down even more. Having to go outside  
my own home does help.)

Truth be known, the term "Air Force One" actually pertains to me, not the plane.  
It becomes the call sign of whatever Air Force aircraft I happen to commandeer.  
Some of the Joint Chiefs might occasionally look down their noses at their  
civilian boss, but in general the military can't do enough for their Chief. When  
I use one of the marine choppers its designation becomes "Marine One;" if I  
board a naval vessel they immediately start calling themselves "Navy One." This  
is just about the only angle to being CIC that doesn't give me the willies.

Hoynes gets his own benefits here, since he probably uses the plane more than I  
do. But then, he's not chained to the Oval Office *or* the White House. Of  
course, for him they use the name "Air Force Two." And I'll bet Abbey racks up  
more air miles than John and me put together. Like this weekend. She's  
complained before that when she flies alone, everyone calls her SAM. It's almost  
a slight that the First Lady merits no more than the same "Special Air Mission"  
treatment as any other diplomat, American or foreign.

Only a total aerophobe could fail to enjoy the flight. It's so roomy and so  
stable that half the time you forget you're airborne. The cuisine is first-rate.  
The communications system is the best in the world. There are phones and TVs and  
Internet plugs everywhere. Oh, and there are *no* airport delays, either coming  
or going. Not that I throw my weight around or anything, honest; it's merely  
good politics in most nations' eyes not to give the U.S. President a hard time  
with regulations when he's graciously offered to drop by for a visit.

Oh, get this: not one of those TVs shows a brand name plate. I checked. They're  
all been removed. The sets are Sony, of course; nothing but the best. But the  
Air Force doesn't like to advertise that it prefers non-American manufactures.  
How typical can you get?

Still, for all this comfort I find it hard to really relax on board. During the  
flight out, the atmosphere just tingles with anticipation. Between the mechanics  
of the schedule and the mechanics of the plane itself, the amount of preparation  
that goes into these trips is dumbfounding. Then, on the trip back, whether in  
triumph or in disappointment, I know there's a small Everest of new work waiting  
for me at home. I might as well enjoy flying at night and watching the sun clear  
the horizon below us; I won't sleep anyway. I'd better be careful or some day  
one of my disgusted staff is going to sneak a tranquilizer into my coffee.

There's the inevitable security everywhere, of course. That plane is armored and  
shielded and guarded from the moment construction begins; they call her the  
"Flying White House" for more reasons than one. No matter where we go, they test  
the fuel before they fill the tanks, and no stranger so much as comes within  
hailing distance. The kitchen and even the cabinets inside are all locked to  
prevent tampering. I'm required to sit on the side of the plane away from the  
door, so that no one in the crowd has a target for whatever firearm they might  
have handy. There's a complete medical center in the tail section. I also happen  
to know that several of the senior flight crew are usually armed, just in case.  
Even with the Secret Service around, they see their job to deliver their  
President safely as a personal commission. So far, not one untoward incident has  
ever taken place, and hopefully no one will ever be suicidal enough to try.

It's when we fly that one gets the best feel for the diplomatic necessity of  
keeping to a timetable. Whoever's receiving us almost always has events planned  
for our arrival, and it's more embarrassing to be early than late. Naturally,  
I'm the most frequent culprit for slowing us down, because whether the crowds  
are there to say hello or goodbye I love to stop and speak with them. Oftentimes  
walking the rope line is the best taste I ever get of ordinary people, whether  
in our culture or others'. Fortunately, my crew are experts at both killing time  
and making up time while we're aloft, and they've redefined the art of arriving  
right on the dot. Apparently some staff members lay bets now and then that  
they'll be off by a "few" seconds, but as far as I've heard they haven't been  
caught out yet.

Of course, we never fly alone. The bulk of the press follows in a second plane  
that lands just before we do, so they're on hand for all the festivities.  
There's no getting out of taking them along; they're the world's eyes and ears.  
Then too, when we're over the open sea there's always a fleet of ships stationed  
along our route below, praying they'll never see this blue, white and silver  
bolt of lightning fall from the sky. And in theory I can summon a fighter escort  
at any time - but that's a rather militant appearance that we generally avoid. I  
don't want to arrive in peacetime with such a blatant show of muscle behind me.  
All too often the hosting nation begs for the honor of providing an escort  
themselves, and yes, it does look impressive. *Too* impressive. Imagine trying  
to coordinate *that* safely, at ten thousand feet or more, and across different  
languages to boot. The very last thing we need is mid-air confusion. I've heard  
of scares with former Presidents when fighter planes popped up unexpectedly, and  
they had no reason in the world not to think it was an attack. I wonder how much  
maneuverability a bird of "Angel's" sheer size can have. Let's not find out the  
hard way.

In today's age of supersonic air travel, it's astounding to think that until  
Teddy not one President had ventured outside the United States.

Something that the public generally doesn't know is that there are *two* of  
these full-loaded 747's at my convenience, and they almost always fly together.  
Can't have the President stranded somewhere because his plane developed a  
problem, right? Now I'm proud of the fact that my forte is economics, but I  
don't want to know what it costs to maintain two such enormous and specialized  
planes, with the constant twenty-four-hour security involved, and to fly both of  
them anywhere in the country... and the world. In all honesty, I have a hard  
time caring. The grace and power of these beauties is intoxicating. Whenever I  
can I head up to the cockpit, chat with the pilot, and stare at all the  
controls. What I wouldn't give to fly her myself - *just once.*

There's also a third plane: one that I've never seen, and hopefully I never  
will. It's been dubbed the "doomsday plane," and the only time I'll use it is in  
the instance of a nuclear attack. I've been told that there are also several  
"relocation centers" in secret hideouts around the country that serve the same  
purpose: to enable one man to conduct a nuclear war. Sometimes I wonder why they  
bother. After the bombs and the climate changes, there won't be much left to  
lead, if anything, and not many people either. If you ask me, I'd rather die  
with my friends than face the horrendous task of rebuilding after Armageddon,  
alone. I understand perfectly why Josh didn't want the Card.

But no, we dare not appear weak before the eyes of the world. The number of  
nuclear powers is rising every year. Only a show of force keeps them even  
moderately at bay, and a strong leader is essential to peace, war and holocaust.  
*Someone* has to be prepared both to push the button and to clean up the mess so  
that life, such as it is, can go on. Well, between these sophisticated bomb  
shelters, the flying War Room and the "football" chained to some marine's wrist,  
the United States are as safe as any of us can realistically hope to be. Most  
days I try very hard to forget that the man responsible for all that  
catastrophic power is me.

Yet despite that power, I can't have my way over a simple church service. Humph.

To many politicos, a weak President is in truth more desirable. Easier to  
maneuver. Safer, in one way of thinking. This might explain why the more  
resolute Chief Executives also have more opponents. It didn't take me long to  
grasp this, and it took even less time to decide that I preferred to take my  
chances. I will not be distracted by personal attacks from the issues or the  
will of the people.

However, behind every strong President is an equally strong wife. This office is  
just too big for one person to tackle completely unsupported.

I wonder where Abbey is right now? Probably over the Rockies; she's not due in  
until supper. I should call her. How many times would that make this weekend? I  
hope they allowed her *some* time to enjoy Hawaii. What I wouldn't give to have  
gone with her. Frankly, that woman is a little *too* good at her job. I'm glad  
she can travel so swiftly and easily, and safely, and she's the best ambassador  
we've got by far - it's just that she's gone so often...

It's rare these days that she and I get the chance to do anything together  
anymore. Shop, have dinner out... attend mass. For most of our lives Sunday  
morning was inviolate, our personal time with our family. Now, when she's out of  
town I'll go alone, but then I feel even more like a symbol being held up for  
display. More often she's free when I'm not; far fewer people clamor for the  
attention of the First Lady. Sometimes I envy her for that... Of course, anytime  
one of us appears without the other - and I don't mean just at Church - tongues  
start wagging that we've had a fight, or in this case that one of us has a  
stronger belief than the other. Or is the more publicly manipulative of the two.  
God knows there've been enough examples in our past of First Ladies who remained  
timidly in their husbands' shadows, and those who've been extravagant  
socialites, and those who were the real power behind the throne.

Abbey... Funny how my thoughts keep coming back to her.

How can anyone think about marrying for any reason besides love? None of that  
"trophy-spouse" or show-marriage nonsense here. We're the two halves of a  
genuine partnership. Neither of us is complete without the other. What we have  
is all-encompassing, and it's forged even stronger with each year. She's  
brilliant, she's dedicated, she's tough as nails, she's got the grace of a queen  
and the patience of a saint, she's so totally caring, she's sexy as hell... I  
always run out of adjectives. She's got a wicked sense of humor. She's also one  
person who can usually talk sense into me when I'm feeling too stubborn to  
listen to anyone else. If only more couples could experience a union of the  
heart and the soul like we do. Not to mention the fact that I feel personally  
responsible for Leo and Jenny. That is such a tragedy. He's given up so much for  
me...

There were several reasons why Abbey wasn't too thrilled with my decision to run  
even once. Come to think of it, maybe she spotted the first cracks between the  
McGarrys that I totally missed. But if anything, our desperate dependency on  
each other to survive this stressful life has tightened the bond even more. And  
I'll bet the United States has never had such a hard-working First Lady. Or such  
a self-sufficient one, either. The amount of work she turns out is stunning.  
It's a crime that her office doesn't get the full credit it deserves. Reporters  
and readers tend to be far more interested in the West Wing than the *East*  
Wing. The smallest thing I do eclipses almost any effort on her part. If only  
they knew what they were missing.

Despite all that, I know she loves this chance to contribute to the greater good  
of the whole country. So do I. For all its stresses and constraints and prying  
eyes, it's a totally unique and incredibly fulfilling opportunity to serve. Man,  
I hope I can convince Abbey that I'm good for another term. Just thinking about  
this as my "last job"... After all, a former President is not much use to  
society. I've still got contributions of my own to make.

That is, assuming I'm up to them...

I think I know what it must be like to work with explosives, because I've got a  
time-bomb ticking away inside my own head, and I don't know when or *if* it'll  
go off. The weird thing is, even that doesn't really scare me. What I *am*  
afraid of is public sympathy. I can't stand the idea of everyone feeling sorry  
for me. I didn't witness Leo's initial reaction myself, but I saw Toby's, and  
that was just too painful. If this thing get out, besides adding to the burden  
of my whole family, it'll be almost impossible for me to work. Not only will  
people not trust my judgment anymore, but they won't want to "burden" me with  
the hard truths I need. Out of pity.

Blast it, I didn't want to dredge up that old nightmare. Even the power of the  
President can't stave off mortality. Some of my predecessors had their own  
problems, like FDR's polio, and they persevered. So will I. I'll just file this  
away with all those other death threats, and do my utmost to forget it's there.  
I have a God-given chance and challenge to lead, no matter what obstacles are in  
my way. I'm going to prove I'm up to it.

The Oval Office is hardly Death Row; still, my departure from it will be just as  
final, and I want to put off that departure as long as possible. I don't want to  
be brought down by questionable health *or* by a failure to fulfill my oath. I  
really do love this job. Not because it's the top of the world, but because it's  
a precious trust. I want to stay. Provided, of course, the people still want to  
keep me.

And if I do the best job possible, they will. I'm going to preserve the  
integrity of this office, and I'm going to leave it stronger than when I came  
in. That is my pledge.

Yep, the mist is definitely clearing. We may get a half-decent day after all -

Whoa. Look at that: a rainbow over the Potomac. I'd swear the tip of the  
Monument is touching it! My God, it's vivid. I can't remember the last time I  
saw one that huge, or that incredibly bright.

You'll never convince me that such an optical illusion is nothing more than  
sunlight refracting through water droplets. Forget the pot of gold; it's a  
bridge to the unknown, a gateway into the realm of the eternal. It is a symbol  
of hope and promise... *exactly* when I so needed one...

I reach out and place my hand on the window's cold glass, as though I could  
touch that source of undiluted wonder myself. I feel the sudden, reassuring  
happiness rise through me like floodwater, a rush of warmth and joy that one  
feels only in the most triumphant and solemn occasions. Never mind that I've  
seen rainbows plenty of times before. I'm absolutely certain this fabulous  
sparkling revelation appeared for *me.* Like a divine message, guaranteeing  
that, eventually, everything will work out fine.

A nearby door clicks open, the quiet sound almost intrusive. I can't bear to  
look away, to shatter this almost sacred vision with secular business. It's so  
beautiful... It won't last long, but right this heartbeat it's *alive.*

"Mr. President?"

All at once I fully experience that proven truth: humans need community. If we  
have no one to share our joys and sorrows with, then the sorrows are magnified  
and the joys are diminished. We are meant to be one people. One nation.

"Mrs. Landingham, come over here!"

"Sir?"

"Come on!"

I still can't tear my eyes from that multicolored span of light, seemingly not  
far away at all, almost like two outstretched arms embracing us all with  
celestial splendor... but I can feel when my secretary is close enough to behold  
it herself.

"Look... isn't it magnificent?" My voice is so soft it surprises me, and damned  
if I'm not fighting back tears.

"It is." This woman is infamous for her unyielding grasp of protocol and  
efficiency. I've never heard *her* voice get this soft, either. The arc of  
blazing brilliance has mesmerized her just as surely as it has me. I'm so glad  
that I could share this moment with her.

Then, as it must, the moment passes. "The Secretary of Education has arrived,  
sir."

I have to blink a few times, to reorient myself into our present reality.  
Somehow the importance of a long-delayed meeting that does mean a lot to me has  
paled before the glory outside my window right now. I'm driven to savor it, to  
share it, just a bit longer.

"Yeah, send him in. He's got to see this, too!"

"Yes, sir."

I have maybe ten seconds before Norm appears. And I'm taking that time to thank  
You, Lord, for this gift. I can scarcely believe how it's raised my spirits.  
It's an undeniable sign of Your constant presence.

You know, maybe I didn't entirely miss my Sunday morning service after all.

**********

"You've got a big brain, and a good heart... and an ego the size of Montana."  
<chuckle> "You do, Jed. You don't have the power to fix everything." <pause>  
*"But I do like watching you try."*  
\- Abbey Bartlet, "The State Dinner"

*****

BIBLIOGRAPHY:  
\- Betty Boyd Caroli, "Inside the White House: America's Most Famous Home - The  
First 200 Years"  
\- Bureau of Electronic Publishing, "Inside the White House" interactive CD-ROM  
\- Funk and Wagnalls Encyclopedia  
\- J.F. Horst & Col. Ralph Albertazzie, "The Flying White House: the story of Air  
Force One"  
\- Ronald Kessler, "Inside the White House"

**********


End file.
